The Center of My Heart
by lilyrowan1
Summary: If two people love each other, why can't they be together? An AU based on canon and written for MM Celebration Day. Thank you, Patsan! All credit toJulian Fellowes for creating these wonderful characters and Michelle Dockery and Dan Stevens for bringing them to life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N-This is a story that I have been writing in my head for months. Patsan's MM celebration day prompted me to write it down. This chapter is rated T but I imagine that things will end up M! Thank you for reading!

**The Center of My Heart**

**Chapter 1**

Matthew paused at the door to the library and allowed himself—how long? a moment, a minute, two?—to look at Mary and feel everything. Feel everything before he made himself push those feelings down, down to that place he kept them so he could look at her as my Cousin Mary, my friend Mary, my dear friend Mary. Really, now, my best friend Mary, they had become so in tune with each other.

How long had he been doing this—looking at the woman he loved for an instant and then making himself see only his cousin and friend? He had tried so hard to forget her when he left in 1914, but had only succeeded in turning the wrenching pain into a dull ache. The war didn't help—when he wasn't terrified in battle he often found himself daydreaming about her. Then, on leave, he had met Lavinia and it was wonderful to replace that ache with something so happy that it had to be love.

In fact, he had been so elated, he was ready be the heir again, to return to Downton with his fiancée, wanting both to show her their future home and to show her off, if truth be told. He had survived loving Mary and two years in the trenches and, you see, I have a life and a love that has nothing to do with Downton! But that first time back, when he turned and saw Mary, his mistake hit him like one of the bullets that had so far missed its target in the war. He had thought he had left a dream for the real world but in that moment, everything shifted and it was clear that the dream was the idea that he could ever stop loving Lady Mary Crawley. He was looking at the love of his life and, even though Mary didn't love him, he would always love her in a way he could never love Lavinia. He didn't know how he got through the evening.

And so that was when it started, giving himself a moment to feel everything—Mary, my love, my true love, my only love—and then pushing it down. It was how he coped, it became a habit and it wasn't one he wanted to break now. In fact, in the days since Mary had returned from London and announced she had ended her engagement to Richard Carlisle, Matthew had been allowing himself longer looks at his love before he made himself see his friend.

The flames of the library fire were still burning brightly and the gold titles of the books in the arc of the fire's light glimmered in the dark room. He watched in the doorway as Mary, illuminated in profile by a lamp and the fire, sorted through the records stacked next to the Victrola, a Christmas gift to the family from Cora's mother. They had accumulated quite a selection of music in just a few weeks, thanks mostly to Sybil. The Victrola had been moved from room to room but finally found a home in the library because Robert had discovered that, while he dozed at concerts, he loved listening to classical music while working or reading.

Mary, however, selected a show tune and Matthew realized with a pang that it was from a musical that he and Lavinia had seen in London when he was on leave shortly after they had become engaged. Lavinia! It didn't seem possible that someone so vibrant could have died so quickly but the influenza outbreak had perversely favored the young and strong. Their time together now seemed a lifetime ago.

He sighed and continued to watch Mary who had begun to move imperceptibly to the music, the claret-red of her gown made even richer by the warm light from the fire. Her request that he come to the library so she could explain more about her decision to end her engagement and go to America had surprised him, although he had sensed for days that there was something she needed to tell him but didn't know how.

No one, however, was really surprised that the engagement was over and everyone was relieved, Matthew at the head of that list. Mary had looked increasingly unhappy over the last months whenever Richard visited, so much so that Matthew felt compelled to tell her that she didn't have to marry him, that as long as he was alive, she would have a home at Downton. The Christmas holidays had been strained with Sir Richard now part of the family. The dismal thought of spending every holiday with him was on everyone's mind, and actually everyone's face, whenever he protested the various family traditions. He couldn't understand why the family served itself on Christmas Day; he was ostentatiously bored with charades, rolling his eyes at Mary when it was her turn. On New Year's Eve, he had protested so strenuously the custom of the family dancing with the staff at the servants' ball, insisting he couldn't possibly, that Matthew found himself fantasizing punching him in his self-satisfied, pompous face. In the end, however, he did dance and, while not enthusiastic, was appropriately pleasant. Richard saw the years ahead as well.

But something had happened between Richard and Mary; she had become quiet and withdrawn after he went back to London shortly after New Year's. Matthew would often see her bundled up and walking alone for long periods of time and while she always found time to talk to him, it was not their usual easy conversation and he could tell her mind was occupied elsewhere.

Richard had some kind of important event three weeks after the New Year and he had wanted her to attend with him. She had decided to go a few days early, staying with Aunt Rosamund. The night before she left, after dinner, he asked about her plans for London. She started to answer but then interrupted herself.

"_You must know that, no matter what happens, that I am …that I never. . ." _but here she broke off, and looked away. Her eyes glistened and she pressed her lips together

"_Mary, I don't understand. What's going to happen? Is there any way I can help you?"_

"_Just continue to be my friend." _

Well, that had distressed him no end, but before he could respond, she shook her head and smiled, squeezed his arm, and went to talk to his mother, of all people. He knew that she knew he would never follow her to question her further. Then she moved on quickly to kiss her granny and her parents good night and left the room and that was that. He didn't sleep well at all.

He had met her in the entrance hall as she was leaving early the next morning.

"_I know I've never told you that I carry this still," _he said as he brought the worn talisman out of his pocket and handed it to her. Her mouth trembled as she took the little stuffed dog. _"I don't know what you are facing, but I always felt you were with me when I had him and now you can know I'm with you. He brought me. . ." _He was smiling but his voice choked and he stopped, remembering their good-bye at the train. He had been sure, so very sure he wouldn't be coming back.

"_Thank you," _she whispered, dabbing her eyes with the back of her gloved hand while Matthew looked away so she couldn't see that his eyes were brimming. He couldn't send her off like this.

"_Now look, it's just a loan, mind you, I want him back,"_ he said with his warmest smile and a wink. He wasn't joking, they both knew, and they had laughed together.

She had returned five days later. Matthew didn't see her until dinner that night and when she announced that she had ended her engagement, he was so relieved, he almost laughed out loud. Robert looked as if he would levitate, he was so happy. He loathed Sir Richard and had found it increasingly hard to fathom how Mary could marry him. Her grandmother looked at her steadily and said, _"Well done, my dear."_ Matthew watched Cora. He had never been sure how she felt about Richard. Her smile at the news was immediate and quite genuine, but Matthew noticed how Mary and her mother found each other's eyes instantly. Cora inclined her head slightly and looked at her with deep love and concern, he thought; Mary looked back with what? Was it resignation? And then she took a sip of wine and looked away.

After dinner, Mary came over to him. The strain of the last days was evident in the circles under her eyes, but she smiled and was more relaxed than he could remember seeing her since Christmas.

"_I'm sure you're exhausted, it can't have been easy,"_ Matthew said, looking at her with concern.

"_I am very tired, but very glad to have it done. It's been on my mind for a long time. It was as if I was stuck and couldn't move. Now I have and I'm ready for my life to go on."_ She paused, smiled and cocked her head.

"_About our mutual friend,"_ she began. He looked at her quizzically and then chuckled in understanding.

"_I was going to give him back to you tonight, but if it's all right, I'll keep him a bit longer."_

"_Of course, keep him as long as you need. Did he bring you luck?"_

Mary considered a moment. _"I don't know if it was luck, exactly, but he brought me strength and that was what I needed."_

In the few days since her return, she had seemed lighter, smiling and chatting more, but still Matthew could tell something was preying on her mind. And then, tonight at dinner, she had announced that she was going to America! Rather, that she had written her grandmother about coming for an extended stay, which was really the same thing. Clearly, Robert and Cora knew of the plan and approved. Of course—there would be the inevitable gossip and publicity once news of the broken engagement got out and they wanted to spare Mary. Isobel pronounced it a splendid idea and her granny had sniffed about the colonies but said that she deserved a breath of fresh air after enduring that man all these months and she supposed Europe was just not far enough away. Sybil was full of suggestions of things to do and see but Edith was quite subdued. Matthew just looked at Mary, trying to take it all in, trying to smile.

When he and Robert rejoined the ladies, Mary came up to him.

"_Do you really have to go to America?"_ he asked looking into her eyes with a gentle smile. "_Will the gossip be so bad? People do break engagements, after all."_

Mary considered a moment and then looked at him. _"Richard is very, very angry. He has a lot of power with his newspapers and he knows how to use it."_ She paused and continued_, "There are some things I need to tell you that will explain why I should go. I don't mean to be mysterious, but I can't do it here. After everyone has gone to bed, come to the library and I'll tell you then."_ Once again, Mary excused herself early.

And that left Matthew in a kind of agony, for although he had sensed for some time that she wanted to tell him something, this seemed much more serious than anything he might have imagined. He managed to keep up his end of conversations without looking distracted or distressed but he had no idea whatever what he was saying. And of course, tonight, everyone's going to bed seemed to take forever. Isobel and Violet went home shortly after Mary left, but Sybil _would _decide to go on and on about the Irish Question, yet again. She had for some reason become obsessed with it and loved nothing more than to bait Robert and argue with him, argue circles around him, really, Matthew had to admit with admiration. Where she was getting her information, he didn't know, but she knew what she was talking about.

But finally, finally, he was free to go to the library. His habit had failed him tonight, though. He had been looking at his love and not his friend for much longer than a moment. God, she was so beautiful, he almost couldn't bear it. Mary, my love, my true love, my only love. The beginning of a 17th century poem, memorized for recitation long ago, came back to him:

_Dear, when I did from you remove,_

_I left my joy, but not my love;_

_ That never can depart._

_It neither higher can ascend,_

_ Nor lower bend._

_Fixed in the center of my heart,_

_ As in his place,_

_And lodged so, how can it change,_

_ Or you grow strange_?

What if he had told her that when he came back in 1916? Well, he hadn't, had he? He sighed and made himself push the feelings down so that he could see only his friend, his dear friend, his best friend. He straightened his shoulders and wheeled his chair towards her.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to all who read and reviewed the first chapter! You can't know how much I appreciate it!

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Chapter 2

Mary realized that she should have remained with the family until they had gone to bed. Her parents knew she was going to tell Matthew—had encouraged her, in fact—and so they wouldn't have questioned seeing the two of them hang back as everyone went upstairs, but she had wanted to speak to Anna to let her know that she would be late. Well, really, she had just wanted to speak to Anna.

It had helped to steady her but as the minutes ticked by, and Matthew hadn't come, she found herself wishing she hadn't said anything tonight. Once she had resolved to tell him, though, she just had to get it over with and besides, she didn't know how much time she had before the story came out. Well, in any event, there was no going back now. _"Meet me in the library, I don't mean to be mysterious, just completely melodramatic!"_ she thought ruefully. Matthew was probably beside himself with worry.

She picked up a book, put it down, paced, peered out the window at the night sky. The moon was hidden by clouds and she wondered if it might snow. Finally, she sat down and stared at the fire, trying to let the dancing orange and yellow flames mesmerize her into something resembling calm. It must have worked because she was quite startled when the clock chimed eleven, her heart fluttering in her throat. Where was he? Her father's raised voice, which meant he was really shouting, you never could hear anything in the library, answered her question. Sybil! They were at it again about Ireland. Where had this interest of hers come from? It could take Matthew forever, now. She thought she would jump out of her skin.

Spying the stack of gramophone records next to the Victrola, another new interest of Sybil's, she got up and crossed the room to the table and started to look through the titles. There were a number of classical pieces that would certainly have fit her mood but she needed something light and distracting, she really didn't care what, so she chose the first musical number she came upon and set it playing with a shaking hand. Yes, this was good; she would just keep listening to music until he came.

Her gaze moved slowly around the room and then stopped by a window, she wasn't sure why, and then realized with a start that she was looking at the place where they had first propped him up in his wheelchair. When she looked at him now, she didn't see the chair anymore, she really didn't; she simply saw Matthew. But it had not always been so. The first time she saw him after he had been gotten up out of bed, she had seen only the chair and then, impossibly, that it was he, Matthew, in the chair. And then she had been sick.

.

She had not been expecting to find him at Downton that day. Dr. Clarkson had told her only the evening before, as she left the hospital, that he thought Matthew would be stable enough and strong enough to be moved at the end of the week, three days hence. She always waited now for him to be cleaned up and bathed before visiting, so she had breakfasted and then helped her mother with some scheduling tasks. Sybil had found her in the entrance hall just as she was leaving.

"_Ah, I'm so glad I caught you, I thought you might not have heard! A new transport arrived very early this morning. We had to move several men here to make room—Matthew's one of them."_ she smiled and pressed her arm. _"They were getting ready to wheel him into the recreation room when I left him."_

"_What, he's here and he's up?"_ This _was_ good news!

She quickly removed her hat and gloves and headed for the crowded recreation room. It was full this morning, as usual, men with bandages and slings and sticks, but she was looking from wheelchair to wheelchair. Most of the men were well enough to be in uniform, but of course it was much too soon for Matthew. Across the room, an orderly was settling a patient in a wheelchair by a far window. As the orderly moved away, Mary's eyes traveled from the chair to the blanket that covered the man's lap, to the man himself, slumped in the chair, head down, hands resting flat on a pillow that had been placed on legs that would never move or feel. Mary felt the sick come up and she ran from the room.

She knew she would never make it upstairs. She grabbed a towel from a cart as she left the day room and ran down the hall to an alcove and heaved up the sick. She retched a few times more, then gasped, her breathing finally quieting as she leaned her pounding head against the cool plaster wall. She was completely unprepared for this reaction. What was wrong with her? He was in a wheelchair. This was nothing compared to his arrival and those first horrible days after his injury had been diagnosed. This meant he was getting better, stronger. She shook herself and wiped her mouth. On her way to the day room, she paused at a mirror to make sure her face wasn't blotchy, took a few deep breaths. All right, don't be a ninny.

She dropped the towel in a bin as she entered the recreation room and poured herself a glass of water. Drinking it slowly, she let her gaze find Matthew again and her heart sank when she saw that it seemed he hadn't moved at all. Putting down the glass, she walked quickly across to him. She thought, hoped, that perhaps he was sleeping—he had to have been given lot of morphine to be able to endure sitting up—hoped that was the reason he was so still. But to her dismay, she saw his eyes were open; he was just looking down at his lap.

She touched his shoulder gently and smiled brightly. _"I'm so glad you're here."_

He lifted his head slightly and raised his eyes to meet hers. How could eyes that had no color still be so blue?

"_Hello, Mary."_ He attempted a smile and then looked out the window.

"_It's so good to see you up."_

"_Is it?"_ he asked, looking out at the garden, although Mary felt sure that he really saw nothing.

"_Why ever would it not be? It means you're getting better."_

"_Yes, this is better," _he said, not turning his head, hands so still._ "I guess that's the problem." _He spoke quietly, steadily. "_You see, as long as I was in bed, I didn't really have to face it . . . face that this is as good as it's going to get. I don't mean that I haven't been thinking about it, I can't seem to stop thinking about it, it's always on my mind. But as long as I was in bed, I didn't have to live the reality of . . . of the rest my life."_ He paused. _"And now I do."_

And Mary realized that this was why she had been so affected, like a wave overwhelming her, by seeing him in the chair; that she, too, had only now understood, in a way she hadn't before, what his future would be.

They had settled him with a book on the pillow. She reached for it. _The Woman in White_ by Wilkie Collins.

Her throat constricted as she managed to say, _"Would you like me to read?"_

"_Yes, please."_ He continued to look out the window but before she could begin, he turned to her.

"_Thank you, Mary."_

_._

It did get better. Each week he grew stronger, each week he sat straighter, each week his eyes grew a bit brighter. Oh, it wasn't easy, but Mary had been determined to bring him to a better place. She would still see his chair first and inwardly flinch, but she made herself look at his face and there was Matthew, still Matthew, and bit by bit she helped him find himself again. And then one day, she came upon him reading an old copy of _Punch _and laughing out loud and he insisted on reading the article to her and then they had both laughed so hard they were choking and she knew that day that he could face it.

In fact, the next day he was in uniform for the first time and she didn't see the chair and then Matthew, she saw Matthew who happened to be in a wheelchair. They took walks, and she would push but sometimes he wouldn't let her, eventually he insisted always on wheeling himself, and she sat on their bench so he could see her face and they talked about William and Richard and the cat who walked by himself. Sometimes it was very hard, but it always got better.

After the Armistice, it had been an easy decision for Matthew to remain at Downton, although she knew it had not been a decision that was easy for him to accept. But there was no downstairs bedroom or bath at Crawley House, and even if there had been, he would have felt so confined, he would have gone mad. They settled him in a larger room on the first floor and he was grateful for the spacious house and grounds, the family's constant company, the considerate staff. Isobel was grateful, too, and always welcome.

So it was that soon he was in civilian clothes and one morning came into the dining room for breakfast, all on his own, and she didn't see his chair, didn't see Matthew _in_ his chair, she just saw Matthew. And now, six months after he had been carried into the hospital with a tag tied to his wrist, he was so changed that Mary could hardly take it in. His back was straight, his color good, he held his head high; he moved with authority as if his chair were simply an extension of his body.

Mary knew that the war was never far from him and sometimes it was front and center. He never, ever talked about it, but she would find him with a book in his hand, eyes staring but unseeing, for minutes on end. Or they would be talking and he would stop in mid-sentence, not as if he had lost his train of thought but rather had become lost to this time and place for a moment; then he would give a kind of small jerk as if he had been gently shaken awake. Sometimes he would pick up where he had left off, sometimes he would start a new conversation, and sometimes he would give her a small smile and just shake his head.

And she knew he had nightmares, often absolute terrors, because she had overheard him talking to her father about it. She had purposely eavesdropped because she was so desperate to understand what he was going through but didn't dare ask. What she had not expected was to hear Matthew comfort her father who broke down relating the dream that had haunted him for nearly twenty years.

But still it got better. She found him pensive one day in mid-December. _"I can't quite account for it in my head. I find myself feeling more and more as if the world outside of these walls, these grounds, the world I once lived in, doesn't exist anymore. Crawley House is just minutes away but it might as well be on the other side of the moon. It's as if that life belonged to someone else." _He paused, gave her an apologetic smile and turned his chair to leave_. "I guess really, in a way, it did." _

"_Well, maybe it's time for a visit."_ He stopped and looked at her. _"I can't do that." _ And she looked back._ "I don't know whyever not. Branson is at your disposal as much as anyone's, and I'm quite sure he can lift you."_

He had said something about being loaded into the car like luggage and had changed the subject. But the next day, Mary was in the village and saw the car pull up to Crawley House. Branson brought out the chair and then easily lifted and settled Matthew and rang the bell. Mary could hear a block away Isobel's cry of delight that ended in a sob. The next day he had called Harvell and Carter and spoken to Mr. Carter. He wasn't quite ready, his stamina and concentration weren't yet what they needed to be, but he hoped that in the New Year he might begin take on work, just small things at first, if it could be sent to him at Downton and—Mr. Carter had been quite delighted.

Of course, one thing could never get better. They had talked about it only once. In late November, Mary had come upon him sitting alone in the dining room holding a letter, tears quietly streaming down his face.

"_My __God, what is it, whatever has happened?"_

Wordlessly, he held out the letter to her while quickly wiping his eyes. She read the first few lines and looked up.

"_Oh, can't believe it. I am so very, very sorry."_

They were quiet for a moment thinking of the beautiful young woman who had been good and kind and never caused a moment's sorrow in her life. Then Mary thought the question and said it before she could stop herself.

"_Do you ever regret sending her away?"_

If he had found her inappropriate, he gave no indication. After a moment, he looked up at her and shook his head, _"No, no I don't. No woman should have the life she would have had with me. And how could I marry her when—." _He had stopped abruptly and started again. _"No, I don't regret it._ _You know, her father, who was always very good to me, wrote to me after she returned to London. He said how much he had wanted me for a son-in-law, but he thanked me in the kindest way possible for releasing her." _He nodded at the letter._ "He thanked me again and he's right. My only regret is that she didn't live long enough to find the happiness she deserved."_

Mary had walked over to a window. How odd that at this moment the world outside was bright and shining. Finally, she turned and looked at him. _"What about the happiness you deserve?"_

He waited a full minute before answering. _"It's all right, Mary,"_ he said softly. _"I'm not afraid of being alone." _

She had wanted to ask another question but didn't.

.

Mary was surprised when the song ended. Her head swung automatically to the library door. The music had calmed her momentarily, but now, looking at the empty doorway, her stomach clenched and she realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly. Breathe, she told herself, he can't be long now. She made herself sort through the records, taking her time. She chose a new title and set it playing. Closing her eyes, she held on to the edge of the table with her fingers and tried to let herself feel the music.

.

Her life had not gotten better.

With each passing month she had found it harder and harder to be around Richard but she had made her choice and she had to live with it, didn't she? So she had put on her Lady Mary face and done her duty to their relationship. She had planned Haxby with him—God how she hated that vulgar house, it would simply scream nouveau riche by the time Richard was finished with it; gone to endless dreary parties introducing him to her people while cringing at him and yet also feeling sorry for him as he tried to find his way; and endured him visiting at Downton where it became increasingly clear that he was jealous of her friendship with Matthew. Rather, her "devotion" to him, as Richard had called it. Well, what of it? That devotion had been her only solace as Richard continued to set her teeth on edge and she had begun to realize what her life would be when they married.

On his last visit up before Christmas, he had confronted her.

"_You spend too much time with Matthew. It will be a big adjustment for him after we marry and you're living at Haxby, busy with our new life," _he began quietly enough, but his delivery was deliberate.

"_Matthew will be fine," _she said lightly. _"He's come so far, he'll manage."_ She had a feeling she knew where this was going.

"_And will you manage?"_

Mary just stared at him and Richard burst out, _"And don't pretend you don't know what I mean. Half the time you finish each other's sentences."_

"_You needn't worry," _she had returned coolly,_ "there's no one who wants me married more than Matthew." _Well, it was true—Matthew did want to know that she had a "real life coming," as he had put it, just not with Richard. He had told her she didn't have to marry him or anyone, she would always have a home at Downton as long as he was alive. Of course, she did have to marry Richard; she would have to be more careful.

Somehow, she managed to get through Richard's visit at the holidays without provoking him and she made sure she was attentive enough to keep him from complaining. Richard clearly took satisfaction in the fact that Matthew, of course, hadn't been able to participate in the shooting on New Year's Day, going on and on about the day's events when they were all together in the drawing room after dinner and then "apologizing" to him.

"_Matthew, I'm so sorry—how thoughtless of me! It must be so very frustrating for you always to miss out, always having to live life from the sidelines as you do."_

The condescending remark was met with stunned silence and Robert looked ready to throw him out on his ear. Mary stood, but before she could say anything, Matthew looked up at her and rolled his eyes in conspiracy, then turned to Richard and observed mildly that as he had never been very good at shooting, there was not much for him to miss. _"But, please, do continue. When one lives the circumscribed life of an invalid, hearing the experiences of others is always interesting, really quite exciting, in fact." _And he looked at Richard expectantly. Robert had changed the subject.

But the benefit was that Richard's relatively good mood meant that he didn't mind her conversing with Matthew from time to time. She went up to him later that evening. _"Thank you for stopping me earlier before I said something I might regret. But I can't imagine how you kept a straight face."_

Matthew looked at her innocently and then grinned. _"Really, it wasn't hard, you know. He does rather beg to be teased, doesn't he?"_

The day before the Servants' Ball, they were all gathered in the drawing room before dinner and she and Matthew had started arguing about Lloyd George, of all things. Matthew had no great love of Lloyd George but supported his education reforms; Mary really had no reason not to support the reforms but could not abide Lloyd George.

They had gone back and forth, neither giving ground, voices rising, getting more and more heated and annoyed with each other, almost angry. Mary noticed that Richard seemed amused and rather pleased to find them at it. Finally, simultaneously, they had clamped their jaws shut and just glared at each other. Then Mary had raised an eyebrow and then Matthew had cocked his and smirked and they had burst out laughing together and, it seemed, couldn't stop. When Mary finally caught her breath, she looked up and saw Richard staring at her, outwardly composed, but Mary could tell he was seething. Dinner was called and Richard moved swiftly to her side, taking firm hold of her elbow. He held back as the others moved to the dining room, then guided her out and suddenly Mary found herself backed up against the wall in the hall, Richard's face inches from hers.

"_Am I never to be free of him?" _

Mary looked at him and considered her response. _"Of course not," _she said evenly._ "You know how families like ours work, and he'll be head of it, one day."_

His eyes were locked on hers_. "That's not what I mean and you know it. Will there be three people in our marriage?"_

"_Don't be ridiculous—" _

"_I have tried, Mary, God knows I've tried, I've done everything I can to please you—"_

"_Look, I know you're used to having your own way-"_

"_Yes, yes I am. And I will say something now and do not ever forget this. If you think you can marry me and then set me aside, I tell you now you have given me the power to destroy you. Don't for a minute think that I won't use it. I want to be a good husband. I want you to be happy. But don't ever cross me. Absolutely never. Do you understand?"_

Yes, yes finally, she did understand. She would have to brave the storm.

.

How in the world had this become her life? A life once so mapped out that she had railed against it and now she couldn't even picture her future. She watched the revolutions of the record and thought back to the garden party: how she had loved Matthew so much she thought she would break apart; how she had wanted so much to reveal her secret; how she couldn't bear for him to know. All these years later, nothing had changed. Round and round and round. I love you I love you I love you.

The song finished and Mary placed the arm of the Victrola back in its stand. She suddenly understood that she had always known she would tell him, that everything that had happened since that day had led to this moment. She should have seen how it would end, but she hadn't. Looking up with a start, she saw Matthew enter the library. Their eyes met, a smile lit his face and her heart began to pound.

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Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_OK! These two finally get together in real time. It's going to be a long night! Thank you to_ a_ll who have read and reviewed!_

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Chapter 3

"You came. For a moment, I wasn't completely sure you would," Mary smiled. She started to put the record back in its sleeve, but gave up when she realized how her hands were trembling and clasped them in front of her.

"Well, for a moment, I wasn't sure if I would make it before tomorrow." Matthew shook his head and grinned. "You know I love your sister dearly, but good Lord, I was ready to throttle her tonight. Sybil just would not stop. The more she wound your father up, the more she kept at it. Your mother finally threw a small fit, thank goodness."

He maneuvered his chair around the furniture in the library as he made his way over to the table where Mary was standing. The light from the fire heightened the contrast of her alabaster skin with her dark hair and eyes. But he saw that her cheeks were pink, almost feverish, and the pulsing shadow at her throat told him her heart was racing.

"And then," he continued, trying to ignore his own pounding heart, "I waited until everyone had gone upstairs before I rang for Bates to tell him I would be a while-," he broke off with a sharp intake of breath, pressing his lips together, frowning.

"Are you all right?" Mary asked with concern as he stopped wheeling.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I just sometimes get uncomfortable in the chair, you know." He started to say more but thought better of it. The moment passed and he continued to move forward, but glancing down, he saw that his right leg had fallen over against the left, his right foot turned in and almost off the foot rest. When had _that_ happened? He felt his face grow hot. He hated the way it made him look, so helpless and without control, and he hated that it had happened without him noticing because he couldn't feel.

"Just give me a moment to make an adjustment," he said as he stopped again, trying to keep his voice steady. "Go ahead and choose another record, that last song was quite lovely."

She smiled and turned her back to him as she looked through the titles again. She wasn't sure what was bothering him but she knew he wouldn't want her watching.

Matthew held his lower leg in both hands and moved his right foot away from his left and set it straight. Then, his left hand holding his shin to keep his foot from slipping off the foot rest, he worked his right hand under his thigh. He lifted and pulled his leg until it was where he wanted it. But when he let go, the damned thing flopped back again. It had to be due to the way he was sitting. He grasped the arms of the chair in each hand and pushed up to lift himself enough to change his position slightly. Even with the exercises he had been doing to strengthen his arms and upper body, it was a struggle to lift the dead weight of his lower half. He grimaced as his shaking arms strained to hold him up long enough for him to attempt to reposition himself more to the right. He wasn't sure if he had improved anything; for all that effort he wasn't sure he had moved at all, but he lifted and settled his leg again. This time, the leg didn't fall back against the other but was still angled towards it. He exhaled slowly. How were those things really his legs? Well, it would have to do. He hoped Mary wouldn't notice. At least his foot was straight.

(Mary, of course, saw only Matthew.)

"All's well," he said lightly as he wheeled up to the table. His frustration with himself was immediately forgotten, however, when saw in dismay that she was squeezing her hands together to keep them from shaking.

He looked up at her with an expression of such tenderness that Mary could almost not bear it. "So," he said cocking his head with a smile, his eyes affirming that he was on her side, "the American adventure awaits."

"Yes, I think so, yes."

"You will perhaps follow in your papa's footsteps?"

"If you mean marry a millionaire, that would be Mama's plan. Papa told me told me to find a cowboy, but perhaps there are cowboy millionaires." And although she was almost dizzy with anxiety, when Matthew laughed she had to join him. His presence, now that he was finally here, began to calm her a bit.

"A cowboy! That would be wonderful! Lady Mary of the prairie!" Then he paused and looked at her with a gaze that seemed to take in more than the moment.

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He gave a half smile. "I'm just remembering the first time ever I saw you when you came to Crawley House to invite us to dinner. You in your riding habit_." When I fell hopelessly in love with you, that is. _"You know, they have a whole other way of riding in the American West. I'd like to see you bring that back to Downton."

"_You_ know I'm English through and through. More like I would bring a whole other way of riding to the prairie."

"I'm sure you would," he smiled. They were both silent. This was it, she should just tell him and get it over with, she had rehearsed in her head all evening what she was going to say, but she couldn't quite yet.

"Here, it's your turn, you choose a something." She brought the records to the edge of the table where he could reach them.

Matthew looked them over and made a selection and then, smiling up at her, handed the record over since he couldn't reach the turntable and the arm of the Victrola himself.

Mary considered the title, _yes, that's certainly appropriate,_ and read aloud. _"Look for the Silver Lining. _I don't know this one."

"Sybil says it's from a show that flopped, _Zip Goes a Million, _or something. I rather like it."

"Do you believe that?" she asked, placing the record and winding the Victrola. "Is there always a silver lining?"

_No,_ he thought, _I don't believe it._ But he said: "Yes, I do, it's just sometimes hard to find." He added quietly, "I know you'll find it, Mary." That he did believe.

She set the needle down and the somewhat melancholy melody filled the room and he ached as he watched her move a bit to the music. He had loved dancing with her so very much, there hadn't been enough dances at Sybil's ball. He held out his hand. _What? What in the world was he doing? For goodness' sake, he was asking her to dance!_ But before he could pull his hand back she had taken it in hers and they both felt it, that connection, like an electrical charge, that had always been there when they touched like this, although anyone watching would simply have seen two people with hands clasped, arms imperceptibly swaying.

Matthew allowed himself to remember, just this once, what it had been like to be able to stand in front of her and look down into those dark eyes, his cheek almost touching hers, inhaling her scent. He allowed himself to remember how it felt to press his hand to the curve of her back and guide her around the room, their bodies moving as one.

Mary realized that, whenever she might leave for America, this was their good-bye—their good-bye to what was and what might have been and what could never be. Perhaps, after she told him, just good-bye. She let herself remember that night of the ball, floating around the ballroom in his arms, happier than she had ever thought she could be, loving him more than she had ever thought she could love. And then, right after, it had all fallen apart.

"We were a show that flopped." She hadn't realized she had said it aloud until she saw his stricken face. It hit him so hard his chest hurt.

"Oh, God, Mary," his voice a whisper, ragged with loss and regret. "I am so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?"

"Don't be. It wasn't anyone's fault, or if it was, it was mine."

He started to object but she looked back at him with the ghost of a smile, slightly shaking her head, and they became lost in each other's gaze, wanting the moment to go on forever and truly for a moment, it did.

Neither could have said how long the needle ticked after the music ended. Finally, Matthew lowered his eyes to her gloved hand and brought it gently, barely, to his lips_. _Without raising his eyes, he released her hand and backed his wheelchair away, moving toward the fire. Mary turned to the Victrola and lifted the arm.

_Good Lord, have you lost your mind? _He remembered telling her once that if she weren't engaged, he wouldn't let her anywhere near him. _ She really does need to go to America and get away from you._

He was trying to find the words to apologize when he heard her say softly, "I have managed to stall, haven't I? "

"Mary, you owe me no explanations," he replied, turning to face her, although actually, he desperately wanted to understand.

"But, I do. You see, there are things you need to hear from me but they are very difficult to talk about." And she stopped and swallowed hard.

"I take it," he said gently, "that there is something Richard knows about you that you wouldn't want to see in print, although I can't imagine what."

"No, I'm sure you can't and when you find out, I'm sure you will despise me."

"I never would, I never could despise you, Mary; please, please believe that." His eyes sought to assure her of the truth of his words. _And if I could take you in my arms to hold and comfort you, I would_.

"Thank you for that, I do believe you mean it, but then, you don't know what I am going to say." Looking away again, she continued, "I told you the other evening that I was stuck and couldn't move and I'm sure you thought I meant some kind of inertia in ending my engagement, but my relationship with Richard was much more complex." She took a deep breath and then plunged on. "After we became engaged, Richard learned of. . .of an indiscretion of mine. There had been gossip about it, which was bad enough, but if it were to come out in print, it would—it will—bring shame to me and worse, to the family. I told Richard myself so that he could stop someone who was going to sell the story to the papers, and he did—he bought the story and so nothing was ever printed. Richard was actually pleased-it put us, as he said, on a slightly more equal footing." Matthew was looking at her intently, trying to see where this was going.

"Who tried to sell the story? How did they find out?"

"I promise I'll tell you another time, _(if you're still talking to me)_ but it's too much for me to do right now." He nodded for her to continue. "So you see, although it was unspoken between Richard and me, I understood that I would always be in his debt and that for me to end my engagement risked exposure. I wish I were like Sybil and truly didn't care what people think, but I do care, not nearly as much as I used to, but I do care." She looked away again, and then back at him. "And I do care about the people who would be hurt."

"Richard and I quarreled the night before the Servant's Ball. _(You don't need to know it was about you.)_ He was furious and he told me that if I ever crossed him, he had the means to destroy me and that he would do it. And suddenly, I realized, no matter that the story would come out, I couldn't marry a blackmailer."

"That bastard!" He wheeled himself up to her. "Thank God, Mary, thank God you ended it!" He scowled and his eyes darkened as he thought of what her life with Richard would have been like—what kind of a man would blackmail his own wife?

Mary touched his arm; only then did he become aware that his fist was pounding the arm of his chair, and he realized how much he wanted to hurt Richard and at the same time how pathetic that idea was given his condition. He stopped his fist and grasped the arm, worrying the wood with his thumb, his shoulder jerking with the motion.

"Your reaction does more for me than you can know," she said quietly.

"But do you really think he will publish if he hasn't yet? Several days have passed."

"I don't know. You're right in that he was so angry when I told him, I expected to wake up to the headlines the next day, so perhaps his fury has passed. But he may be waiting in order to put the story out that he was the one who ended the engagement, no reason given of course, but with the implication that he was wronged. Then, after a time, he publishes the story and everyone assumes that's the reason he ended it. And I assure you, no one will blame him."

"But in any event," she continued with a quick smile, "I'll be in America. And I can't have you reading about it with breakfast one morning, you need to hear from me how I 'blotted my copy book,' as Aunt Rosamund so charmingly put it once."

Mary had always wondered if he had ever heard anything, had had some inkling. Looking at him now, she realized he hadn't and, oh, it made it so much harder to go on.

Matthew frowned; he couldn't think what she might be talking about. "Something that happened after I left in 1914." A statement, not a question.

"No, before then."

"Then it must have been before we came to Downton?" Now he was really perplexed.

She shook her head. "No, it was after that."

Matthew looked up at her completely baffled. How could something scandalous have happened during that time and he be unaware of it?

She walked over to the window seat and looked out at the clouds. A few snowflakes shimmered in the light from the library. She went to the fire, her back to Matthew, reaching up to the chimneypiece as she looked into the flames. Her rehearsed speech had suddenly flown out of her head and she didn't know where to begin, except at the beginning.

"You, of course remember, Kemal Pamuk." She turned to see him nod. "And you might remember that I flirted with him shamelessly." He raised both eyebrows and cocked his head and she almost laughed. "Yes, well, of course you do, I'm sure everyone who was there that night does. I had never felt anything like it, never met anyone like him. I thought I was such a woman of the world! But I wasn't at all, I was naïve, completely inexperienced." She added quietly, "I hope you can believe that," and turned away, again.

"Mary, of course I believe you, I know it to be true. Do come sit down where I can see you better."

She sat down on an ottoman and he wheeled up beside her but facing the opposite direction. He looked at her with such a gentle gaze that she didn't know if she could go on; when she spoke again, her eyes dropped to her hands.

"You may remember, also, that I left you and Evelyn in the drawing room and followed him out." She paused trying to remember that person that was her younger self. "It was. . .it was exciting and I wanted that. Or I thought I did. He was waiting for me in the morning room and after some small talk he pulled me to him and kissed me. I was stunned and stopped him and he asked to come to my room that night and I said no and left him." She looked up. "Do you believe me?"

"I believe you." He was beginning to see where her story was headed.

She looked down again and continued. "Then later that night, I was still up reading in bed and suddenly he was there, in my room—a servant must have told him where it was. I told him if he didn't leave I would scream. Do you believe me?"

"I believe you."

"Well, he told me no one would hear me and that, anyway, no one would believe me. I insisted he go, I said I was sorry if I had led him to think I was—I hadn't meant for him to think, I would never —"

"Mary, it's all right, please, I believe you. You don't have to go on! It wasn't your fault—he was a predator for God's sake!" Matthew could hear his heart pounding in his ears and he found himself gripping the arms of his chair, his upper body moving in agitation, wanting to kill him if he weren't already dead. He knew now what she was going to tell him.

"I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. He kissed me and I didn't try to stop him. He pulled me down on the bed and then he . . .I thought I was so sophisticated but I was terrified." Her voice had become so quiet, so small, and she had crossed her arms, holding her sides, as if she would break apart. "And then it was over. And then he died."

Matthew stared at her. "He died in _your_ bed? How did he. . .?"

"Anna and Mama and I carried him back to his room."

Matthew's jaw dropped. "The three of you? Carried him across the house? And no one saw you?"

"No, that's just it, someone did. You know the three of us would never have said anything."

She paused and looked at him with a tight smile. "So that's my saga, my tale of lust and intrigue. I'm Tess to your Angel Clare. It would make a bad novel. It will sell a lot of papers."

"Please don't joke about it and make it little. It isn't little. You're not little." If he touched her, would she shatter? He reached out his hand and she took it; they were holding each other up.

His voice was choked with emotion and pain. "I don't think you understand what he did to you."

She searched his anguished face for censure but could not find it. "I think perhaps that, in telling you, finally I do," she whispered in a voice she could barely keep steady. "But that's not how the story has been told, nor will it ever be. It will always be that I took a lover who died in my bed. That's how I told it to myself until tonight." She released his hand and looked down. "And the fact is that I was made different by it. And because of that, we were made different by it."

Matthew shook his head, trying to absorb everything he had just heard, trying to understand. What did she mean, _we were made different by it_? He looked at the embers of the dying fire and tried to see the two of them through the years but now with new eyes.

He was silent so long that Mary wished he would just say something, anything. Finally, her throat constricted, she said quietly, "I'm so sorry for it to come out to you like this. I should have told you at the garden party."

It was as if he had been turning and turning a kaleidoscope and then stopped and suddenly there, finally, was the picture.

His head snapped up. Her shoulders were shaking, everything about her straining to maintain control. A tear trickled down her cheek. She brought a hand to her mouth, just as she had that awful day so long ago.

His eyes found hers and held them.

"Is this," he whispered, "is this why you didn't accept me?" She could only nod her head as she began to sob.

"Oh, my darling-" he cried and his face crumpled as he held out his arms and in one motion she fell against him with a wail and he gathered her into the embrace they had been so long denied .

* * *

_The night's not over yet! Thank you for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you so much to all who have read this story! And a special thank you to those who have reviewed-your comments have been so encouraging!

Did you notice that it had started snowing?

* * *

_It was as if he had been turning and turning a kaleidoscope and then stopped and suddenly there, finally, was the picture._

_His head snapped up. Her shoulders were shaking, everything about her straining to maintain control. A tear trickled down her cheek. She brought a hand to her mouth, just as she had that awful day so long ago._

_His eyes found hers and held them._

"_Is this," he whispered, "is this why you didn't accept me?" She could only nod her head as she began to sob._

"_Oh, my darling-" he cried and his face crumpled as he held out his arms and in one motion she fell against him with a wail and he gathered her into the embrace they had been so long denied_ .

How long is a moment? How long when measured against forever? Or never?

Matthew couldn't have said how long he cradled Mary's shuddering body, her sobs of regret, of relief, of the pain that was their love, muffled against his shirt. It had been so long since he had held her—and he had never held her like this—he was never to have held her like this—and he tightened his arms and began rocking her gently, stroking her hair, her head tucked under his. _Mary, my Mary, my darling, my love._ _We could have been married, we could have had children!_ His tears flowed quietly and he began pressing kisses to the top of her head, her hair becoming as wet as his shirt.

Mary couldn't have said how long he held her. All she knew was that his arms were finally, finally around her, pressing her to him. _It's done, it's over, he knows and he loves me!_ Eventually, her sobs grew quieter, her breathing more even, she reached a hand up to the side of his face and she felt him pull her closer, felt him kissing the top of her head. She could hear his heartbeat, she found the rocking so soothing, it was if they were one body. She curled her legs up onto the ottoman. _Can't we stay like this forever?_

Matthew felt her body relax, her breathing grow calm, her hand on his face. He leaned back in his chair and their breathing found a rhythm that brought them closer still. He felt her hair twined in his fingers, his other hand on her back, the cut of her gown allowing him to touch her silken skin; he could feel this, he could feel _her_ and it felt so good, so right, so true. Just for this moment, he wouldn't let himself think about what he could not feel.

Finally, after how long they couldn't have said, they both sighed and moved apart but still together, still touching, their eyes locked. Matthew wiped his eyes and then took out his handkerchief and gently, tenderly dried her tears. Her eyes were swollen, her face blotched, strands of her hair loose—he had never seen it down, he wanted it all to come down—she had never looked more beautiful. He reached out and stroked her hair, moving a lock behind her ear. He took her hand and kissed her palm and then placed it over his heart.

"You are here in the center of my heart," he said, his voice low and heavy with emotion. "You always have been and you always will be. I was such a fool. I tried to forget you with Lavinia, but when I came back to Downton, I realized that I still loved you, would always love you in a way that I could never love anyone else. I would have told you, I should have told you, but. . ."

"You thought I didn't love you."

"Yes." Her hand gripped his. "I was so afraid of being hurt again. And then later . . ."

"I was engaged to Richard."

"I'm so sorry, Mary, so very sorry."

She shook her head. "Carson once told me to tell you what was in my heart, that if I didn't, I would always regret it," she whispered, her eyes not leaving his. "I never did and he was right. And I'm so sorry, so very sorry."

He reached up and brushed her hair back with first one hand, then the other, and he held her face, drinking in every feature, losing himself in the depth of her eyes. They moved together in one slow and careful motion, their kiss first gentle and chaste, then harder and with a hunger for more, the years of longing and yearning finally overwhelming them. Mary reached up and held his head, her fingers clenching his hair. Matthew's arms surrounded her and their mouths opened and they tasted each other as they never had before. And for a blissful moment, he forgot.

They broke apart and came together again, their kiss deep, hands reaching and stroking and pressing. They stopped to breathe, panting actually, and then he began slowly and gently to kiss her neck, her ears, her eyes, her throat, lingering at the spot where her heart beat. Mary moaned softly and he took her face in his hands and as he brought her to him she knelt on the ottoman, holding onto his shoulders, and this time their kiss was yet deeper, almost frantic, devouring. Matthew felt himself burn inside, he hadn't realized he could still feel like this, he ached with the desire to be with her completely—

And then, in that moment—and how long is a moment when measured against forever, or never?- he could no longer forget what he couldn't feel. Why had he let this happen?

He made himself stop, and as slowly and gently and carefully as they had first come together, he pulled back, his hands still holding her face. When Mary saw his eyes, she knew.

"Forgive me," he whispered and he released her.

She reached for him but he had already backed his chair away and turned. He had to get away. He was about to break into pieces and he couldn't let her see it. But you can't move very far or fast, can you, if you keep squeezing your eyes shut trying to hold back the tears that are already leaking out. And you can't move at all, can you, if you need two hands to push your stupid chair but you need one to cover your face to stifle the sobs that are choking you. And even if you give up on covering your face, you still can't move, can you, if your arms, which you need to push that stupid chair, just won't work because your body, the part of your body that's actually supposed to function, just can't seem to work anymore. He got as far as the window seat and finally gave up. His shoulders began to shake, barely at first, then harder and harder until his body was wracked with sobs that came from a place that he had never truly let himself acknowledge, mourning, with finality, what would never be.

Mary watched helplessly as he moved away. She watched him stop by the window, his back to her. She watched as one hand went to his face, the other gripped the arm of his chair, his shoulders shaking, his weeping changing to harsh, ugly cries of pain that shook his body and sometimes came so hard that he made no noise at all until he would gasp for breath and begin anew.

_Please, God, if you can remember me, help me. Help me to know what to do and say._ Mary moved to him and standing behind his chair, leaned down and circled her arms around his shoulders, kissing the top of his head and then resting her cheek upon it. He reached up and took her hand like a life line, his other hand still covering his face, his head turned away. "It's all right, it's perfectly all right," she whispered and held him tighter.

Eventually, although his chin still trembled and tears wet his cheeks, his breathing calmed and, without letting go of his hand, she came around the chair and sat down on the window seat facing him. His head was still turned away and his hand covered his eyes but finally he gave a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, Mary. I've blubbed so much these past months I wouldn't have thought I had any tears left." He lowered his hand and turned to look at her. "And I've cried for us and what might have been between us. But you see, I never, ever, imagined that we could have had what we had tonight, and what I felt. . ." He fought to maintain control of his voice. "Whatever part of me that's dead . . . there is still . . . Oh, God-" He looked away again, his mouth pressed shut, a tear trickling down his cheek. He could barely choke out the words. "You see, it's just that I desire you as much as I ever did, more perhaps. And it's just so hard, the years we lost, finally being with you now and feeling that. . . but knowing it's all impossible."

Mary reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and began to wipe his face, to see to him as he had taken care of her. She stood and kissed his forehead and then turned to look out the window. It was really snowing now, but a gentle snow, a delicate snow that made the world shimmer. She pressed her hands against the glass to feel the cold. And she thought about the center of _her_ heart.

"It's not impossible," she whispered. She turned, sat down and took his hands. "It's not impossible." He had barely begun to collect himself and he looked at her in confusion.

"I made the mistake of not telling you what was in my heart once; I'm not going to make that mistake again." Before he could object, she took a deep breath and went on. "You had been given so much morphine and were in so much pain, I don't know that you can remember a conversation we had after you sent Lavinia away. You said that you couldn't marry any woman -"

"I remember."

"Well, then perhaps you remember that I said. . .I said, what if they should just want to be with you? On any terms?"

"I remember."

"I know you thought I was speaking of Lavinia, but I wasn't, Matthew." Her eyes filled, beseeching him to understand, and he did.

His mouth dropped open and he started to shake his head. "Don't, Mary, please don't," he said with a kind of desperation. He tried to pull his hands away but she held on, she wouldn't let him go.

"It was I, Matthew, I was talking about myself. I meant it then; I mean it now. Nothing has changed."

She had not intended to, he knew that, but her words tore him apart. He tried to speak but his throat closed in the effort to keep from breaking down again and his chest heaved once, twice. He looked at their clasped hands; he couldn't look at her eyes.

"If you remember that conversation," he finally managed to get out, his mouth tight, "you will remember what I said."

He was still not looking at her and when she didn't respond, he finally looked up and her face told him that she did remember all too well.

"I said no one would want to be with me as I am now, including me. I meant it then. I mean it now. Nothing has changed."

"_You_ have changed—you aren't the person now that you were when you said that. It was all so new, so raw, so terrible. You were wounded, barely alive, and grieving. But you've begun to rebuild your life, you're strong, you-"

"Mary, please, please, stop!" he begged hoarsely. "I can't bear it." He pulled his hands away and started to back up his chair and then stopped, and he looked at her with eyes that she hadn't seen for months. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but hard, his words clipped. "I am an impotent cripple, Mary." He forced himself to say the words, forced her to hear them. It hurt to see her stricken face but he had to go on. "I have to be carried to the toilet. I have to be put to bed like an infant. That will not change. I can't be with you physically as a husband, I can't give you children. That will not change. You may think that doesn't make a difference, that emotional love is enough, but you would come to hate me for denying you a normal life. No woman, much less the love of my life, should be chained to this leaden lump, this dead flesh. You are remembering me as I was." He had to stop and his jaw worked as he struggled to keep his composure. "You look at me and you see Perseus," he said, his voice finally breaking, "but I'm not Perseus, I'm the Sea Monster." He turned his head and said so quietly that she could hardly hear him, "My body repulses me."

Her heart sank at the realization of the mortification he felt and she despaired of reaching him. _ Give me the words._

"Matthew, please look at me." When he didn't turn she reached out and gently touched his cheek. "Please." She faltered when she saw the pain in his eyes but she would not stop now.

"What is physical love?" She reached out her hand again, her slender fingers stroking his face. "Is this touch not physical? Can you not _feel_ my love? When you look at me with such tenderness in your eyes that my knees go weak, is that not physical love?" She reached out her hand and laid it over his heart. "When you take my hand and place it over your heart so that _my_ heart races, is that not physical love? When your face lights up when I come into a room, when you make me laugh until I can't breathe, what is that, if not physical love?" Her voice hitched and she brushed tears from her eyes. "What we shared tonight. What was that?"

"Oh, Mary," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "You deserve. . . so much more."

She got up and turned away, holding her arms close. It was still snowing and she let herself get lost in the beauty of it. Was this it? Would their misery just go on even after tonight? She saw the endless, empty years stretching ahead. What could she say to make him understand, make him believe her? _Give me the words._

She turned around and gazed down into those blue eyes that did always make her knees go weak and found herself smiling. _Tell him what is in your heart._ "I think what I deserve," she said slowly, softly, "is to be happy." _Please let him understand._ "And the honorable thing is for you to make me happy."

"Mary—."

"You didn't love Lavinia, not like you love me. You felt that you would be taking advantage of her love in order for you to have companionship, someone to take care of you, and so sending her away was the honorable thing to do. Truly, it was." He started to interrupt but she put out her hand and touched his lips to stop him.

"However, I know that you love me, I know how much you love me, how you never stopped loving me and I hope you know how much I love you and that I never stopped loving you. Matthew, I will love you until the last breath leaves my body, that will never change. What do I deserve? I deserve to be happy. I have been so unhappy for so long, I have loved you for so long, I have been separated from you for so long. Can you not allow me to know what I deserve, to know what will make me happy? Can you not do the honorable thing and make me happy?" She smiled but still her heart was pounding and she held herself tighter, trying to stop the shaking. _Please, please, please._

(Later, he would tease her for her cleverness in not mentioning anything about what he deserved, about his happiness. _Well, that was hard because, of course, you deserve to be happy, but since you had already decided that what was honorable was for you to be unhappy, I knew not to muddy the waters. _He raised an eyebrow and she tugged the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow and smoothed it back. Then she kissed him sweetly and asked,_ Can you allow yourself to be happy, darling? _He pulled her to him and tucked her head under his chin. _You will teach me how, my love,_ he whispered. But that came later in this long night.)

She knew him so well, didn't she? The honorable thing to do. He had been so certain he knew what that was until he heard her words. He frowned, not looking at her, trying to work it through. She was right about Lavinia; could this be different? He knew she meant what she said, or thought she did. But he couldn't let her throw her life away on him, could he? How could that be honorable in any way? He looked up, ready to insist that she thought she didn't care about what she would be sacrificing but that she couldn't really understand. How could she possibly understand? But he was stopped, the words dying before being spoken, because when he saw her face glowing with such love for him, so much belief in _them, _he was simply humbled at the thought that she would maintain that her happiness depended on him, in all his brokenness, becoming her husband. And he understood, finally, that all that mattered was to let this be the honorable thing and that he could do that for her.

He noticed for the first time that it was snowing and he felt himself smiling as he watched; it was like a cleansing of all their hurts and sorrows; a new beginning.

He looked up at her with searching eyes, shaking his head. "Are you very sure?" he said gently.

"Yes, very, very sure."

He held out his hands and took hers. "Well, then, I must do this properly, you know." Her smile became radiant and he could hear a small sob catch in her throat. He paused, feeling the love in their touch, his thumbs caressing her, marveling at the deep connection that could now be openly acknowledged, and then he gently kissed each hand.

"This surely must be the most selfish thing I have ever done. . . but Lady Mary Crawley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, yes, yes."

* * *

Their night is not over yet, they've much to talk about, but we will leave them there and call this the end of Part 1. The next chapter will take place the next day (although it's certainly now long after midnight so I guess it's the actually the same day).

Thank you so much for reading-reviews are like Christmas!


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you all so much for embracing this story! I so appreciate the encouragement you have given me!_

_A couple of notes-I thought I would mention that the story starts at end of January/beginning of February 1919. It has been mentioned that he has been home about six months (not quite that, really) but I have not given a date (that was to help keep the wheelchair a surprise). Since I have incorporated incidents from the S2CS, which took place a year later, I just wanted to clarify the time frame in the story._

_Also, in this AU, Mary is 27 and Matthew is 31 because-because that's just how I always pictured their ages! _

_So now, finally, that long night is done!_

* * *

Chapter 5

Daisy would never have thought that she could like the job of tending the fires, but she did. Oh, she didn't like the soot and ashes, of course, and creeping into the bedrooms in the dark always worried her. What if she knocked something over? But it got her out of the hell of Mrs. Patmore's kitchen. No one yelling at her, no one finding fault when she hadn't done anything wrong. The house was so beautiful, cool and quiet, smelling of lemon and beeswax, always so fresh and clean. She always took her time—not too long, no she didn't dawdle—but she did a careful, thorough job so that she could be upstairs as long as possible.

In fact today, she was a bit ahead of her usual time as she had been able to get through the bedrooms and her early morning kitchen tasks very quickly. She was glad of that because she liked to be in the main house when no one else was about. Her arms full with the ash bin, sheet and tools, she awkwardly pushed through the green baize door and stepped into the world of light and air and beauty that was the great hall. Sunlight streamed down from the high glass dome and it always made her catch her breath, her eyes traveling from the paintings of the lords and ladies—oh, their dresses were so pretty!—to the thick and colorful carpets on the spotless floor, to the glistening, polished wood of the furniture.

She crossed the empty great hall into the entrance hall and entered the small library, the first stop on her circuit. Checking the fireplace, she saw with satisfaction that the fire had not been lit. She might like this job, but that didn't mean that she wasn't happy to have a bit less to do! She walked through into the main library and noticed right away that the shutters were already open. That was odd, she hadn't seen anyone else about, but guessed she must have just missed them. Well, good, she could see what she was doing-the lamp nearest the fire wasn't very strong-and she was going to be doing a lot as the fire had completely burned down. Sighing, she set down the bin and tools and started to spread the cloth when she heard something and stopped cold, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. But what had she heard? She put her hand to her mouth, her heart pounding. There it was again. "Mmmm." She made herself turn slowly toward the sound and gasped, her eyes goggling in surprise. She began to back out of the room, finally turning and running through the small library, into the entrance hall and then into the great hall where she ran straight into John Bates.

"Mr. Bates, I thought it was ghosts there in the library but it was—"

"It's all right Daisy, I know and it's fine. Just go on to the other rooms and do this one later."

"But my things are still in there."

"Yes, well, all right, go back downstairs and wait and I'll get them in a bit and you can finish up," Bates said quietly, noticing Alfred leaving the drawing room with a tray of used glasses from the night before and not wanting to attract his attention.

"I thought it might be William," she whispered.

Bates took in the black band she still wore on her arm and the gold band on her finger. She was white as a sheet and trembling

"Oh, Daisy, no," he said kindly holding her gently by the shoulders. "William died a happy man. He would never haunt you. I'm so sorry you had such a fright."

"Yes, Mr. Bates."

"Wait for me downstairs. And Daisy," he added as she turned to leave, looking her in the eye, "not a word to anyone."

"Yes, Mr. Bates." But she looked very doubtful about the whole proposition.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Bates realized his mistake and started to go after her but here came the maids to start on the rooms. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw them go into the drawing room. He heard Thomas and Alfred now in the dining room. He was almost to the baize door when Anna came through.

"Did you get some sleep?"

"A bit, but—"Bates started to push the door.

"Has anyone tried to go in?" She queried anxiously.

"Alfred came round. I told him I was getting some papers for Lord Grantham and that there was nothing for him to clear out, that the library hadn't been used yesterday."

"And he believed you? Lazy." She giggled. "I told the girls the same thing, so they'll leave it alone. But what's wrong? "she asked, suddenly aware of his worried face.

"I have to get Daisy before she returns to the kitchen or runs into Mrs. Hughes."

"Too late for that. I passed Mrs. Hughes talking to her at the bottom of the stairs as I came up. Daisy looked upset. What happened?"

Bates sighed in frustration. "Well, I had to relieve myself, I just had to, and in the short time it took for that, apparently Daisy came up to do the fires—of all days for her to be early—and went into the library first, of course. She came out looking like she'd seen a ghost, leaving all her things. There are so many people about now, I didn't want to go in to get them without you here, so I sent her back—"

"You what? "

"I know, I know. Mrs. Hughes will be here any minute."

And as if on cue in a drawing room comedy, Mrs. Hughes pushed through the door, followed by Carson, both looking highly displeased.

"Mr. Bates. I just encountered Daisy standing at the bottom of the stairs without her bin and tools and looking quite distraught. When I inquired as to her reason for being there and not in the kitchen, she said that the fires weren't done yet. When I asked why they weren't done, she said, 'You must ask Mr. Bates.' And so," she finished, giving him a withering look, "I am asking Mr. Bates."

Bates and Anna exchanged a look. There was nothing for it but to show them.

"Would you come with me, please." They followed him to the closed library door. He carefully opened it and looked in, turned with his finger to his lips and then led the way into the room. The early morning light played across the carpet. Much of the library was still in shadow but the windows were bright from the reflection of the snow. They stood in a hushed huddle and with a nod of Bates's head toward the window seat, they beheld, as Carson later put it, a sight for sore eyes, indeed.

For there they were: Matthew, his chair pulled up next to the window seat, his head resting on the frame, holding Mary, curled up on the seat, leaning back against his chest, his tailcoat covering her, her head tucked under his chin. They were sound asleep.

Anna silently left the group, tiptoed to the fireplace and gathered up Daisy's things and then they all quietly retreated from the room, Bates first making sure they wouldn't be observed.

After he shut the door, he turned to Carson and Mrs. Hughes who were both beaming. "They went in there late last night to talk and never came out. Anna and I didn't want to disturb them but finally guessed they had fallen asleep and we found them just as they are now. We debated what to do but in the end decided to leave them be. I kept watch out here for the rest of the night. I'm sorry about Daisy, she slipped in when I stepped away. We just wanted them to have their privacy since they were finally together after . . . so many years."

Carson had to clear his throat before he could speak. His Lady Mary had finally told Mr. Crawley what was in her heart, he was sure of that. "Quite right, Mr. Bates, quite right."

"However," said Mrs. Hughes, "you will need to wake them soon if they are to get back to their rooms unseen, which I assume is your goal. In fact, it may be too late already." She smiled, though. "I am very, very glad for them. Anna," she added, turning, "put Daisy's things in the drawing room and I'll send her up." She and Carson left as Anna carried the bin, tools and sheet across the hall.

Bates watched her go, then turned at the sound of the library door opening and found Matthew there, jacket off and tie hanging loose, his eyelids swollen and his hair rather disheveled. He looked bemused to see Bates right at the door, then raised an eyebrow and smirked in comprehension. "Standing guard, eh, Bates?"

"Actually, I was, sir."

"Not all night, I hope! Did you get any sleep?"

Bates inclined his head toward the chair nearest the door, smiling. "I found that chair very comfortable, sir, and slept quite well."

"You're a good liar." Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. It didn't help much. "Have we been found out? Not that I really care," and he flashed a very happy smile.

Bates winced a bit. "Well, besides Anna, of course, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson know. They were most pleased." He couldn't bring himself to mention Daisy. He hoped Mrs. Hughes could make her keep quiet.

"But nobody in the family, then?" He realized that perhaps he did care a bit about that.

"Not yet, sir."

"Good." Matthew saw Anna coming across from the drawing room. "I do apologize to both of you most profusely. We were talking and . . . apparently we fell asleep." He shook his head sheepishly. They had discovered that the window seat and the seat of his chair lined up perfectly for him to hold her. Mary had curled up on it and they had talked and kissed and watched the snow come down. And, yes, they had shed a few more tears, but only because their hearts were so full. When had they fallen asleep? He remembered taking his jacket off to cover Mary, he remembered saying she would teach him how to be happy. . .

"We're very happy for you both, Mr. Crawley." Anna's voice brought him back to the present.

"We are indeed, sir," Bates added. "I'm afraid I must go to his lordship. If you are not ready to leave now, I'll let you know when he has entered the dining room."

"Thank you and we are most grateful to you both for your kindness," smiled Matthew. "And no, we aren't quite ready. Anna, I must trouble you to bring a basin of warm water and a flannel. Lady Mary is having a spot of trouble with her eyes." And he turned his chair and went back into the library, closing the door.

"Oh, dear," said Anna, hurrying off with Bates. She came back quickly with an enamel pan filled with warm water, a flannel and a towel and entered the library. Mary was now sitting up and Matthew was facing her, holding her hands in his, talking to her quietly. Anna came up with the basin and could see Mary's eyes were puffy and closed, her hair half way down, but she was smiling.

"M'lady, what's wrong?"

"Well, apparently my eyes are sealed shut from so much crying." said Mary, sounding slightly amazed. And she reached out and found Matthew's face and laughed.

Matthew took the flannel from Anna and, wetting a corner, began gently to dab at her lashes to loosen them from the dried tears and sleep. "Tell me if it hurts, darling." Anna thrilled to hear him use the endearment. Then he wet the cloth completely, wrung it out and covered her eyes with it. "I'm going to keep this here a bit," he said, holding it gently in place. Mary reached up and put her hands on his wrists.

Anna put the basin down and said, "M'lady, if you will just turn slightly, I can get behind you and try to do up your hair." Mary turned and felt Anna begin to repair the night's damage. "And may I just say, m'lady, as I said to Mr. Crawley, how very happy Mr. Bates and I are for you both."

"Anna, I won't pretend that we don't know what you mean. Thank you." He was here, they were together still. She wanted to kiss him right now, in front of Anna. She laughed again, she couldn't help it. "I can't believe we fell asleep."

Matthew lowered the cloth and, after carefully wiping her lashes again, was pleased that Mary was able to open her eyes and that, as soon as she saw him, a smile lit up her face. "Now I know I'm not dreaming," she whispered. He wanted to kiss her right now, in front of Anna.

"Bates stood guard for us," Matthew grinned.

"Did he? I'm so sorry, Anna. We've caused you so much trouble."

"We're only too happy to help, m'lady. Now we need to get you both to your rooms without anyone seeing you."

Mary made a face. "I don't care if anyone sees us. We've done nothing wrong—we just fell asleep!"

"Well, I've decided I would really rather not have your mama find us looking like this." Matthew said rather grimly. They had talked long about speaking to her parents and what their reaction would be. Mary had wanted to tell them alone but Matthew had insisted they do it together.

_Well, then, let me do most of the talking. Papa will be delighted and Mama-_

_Your mama, _Matthew had interrupted,_ will think that I am murdering her daughter and I can't blame her._

_You really must stop talking like that, it's making me cross. I was going to say Mama may have her qualms, perhaps, so I'll suggest we leave to go make plans. I'll let her say what she must and then I'll explain things so she understands. _ And then she kissed Matthew very passionately just to make sure he understood.

"Don't worry, she's never down this early." Mary said, combing his hair back with her fingers as Anna finished putting her pins and combs in place.

Anna looked at the clock and picked up the pan and flannel. "I'm going to have to be ready to go to Lady Sybil and Lady Edith. Mr. Bates will let you know when the coast is clear."

Mary rose and gave her a quick hug. "Oh, Anna, thank you, for this . . . for everything." Really, she couldn't have gotten through these long years without her.

They watched as Anna opened the door cautiously and silently slipped out. Mary turned and stood in front of Matthew and their breathing quickened as their eyes met and they gazed at each other in a kind of wonder.

"Did last night really happen?" he murmured. "Can this be real"

Slowly, Mary leaned down and took his head in her hands and lowered her lips to his. He reached out and, as their kiss deepened, held her hips, his hands gentle but firm. To be able to touch her like this! They finally both sighed and she knelt down next to his chair, her hands still on his face. "Is that real enough?" she asked gently.

In response, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, holding her close. When he didn't say anything, when she realized that there was something desperate in the embrace, she pulled away and looked up at him. He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I love you so much." He was silent a moment, staring into the distance, thinking. He now truly understood what was meant by the expression _in the cold light of day_. Without looking at her, he continued. "I wish we didn't have to leave this room. It's all so simple here, just the two of us." He turned to her, his blue eyes dark and troubled. "But Mary, life with me will be anything but simple and it will never be just the two of us. Are you sure—"

Before he could finish, she stopped him by giving him a tender, lingering kiss and then sat back on the window seat and took his hands. "I love you, Matthew," she said, her voice low but steady. "I need you to promise me that you won't ever ask that question again. Do you promise?" Her eyes held his. He needed to understand how much she meant this.

He looked out the window and watched a hawk soar between the trees. _Oh, Mary, do you have any idea the kind of life you are choosing?_ He couldn't help thinking the question, how could he not? But that wasn't what she had wanted him to promise, was it? He could promise not to _ask_ it; he _would not_ ask it. _You will teach me._ He could let her happiness be his and he felt a lightness in his chest.

"I promise, my love." He sighed. "I'm sorry, it does feel like last night was a dream and I'm just having trouble accepting that it wasn't." Smiling, he reached out and caressed her cheek. "I'm in a bit of a daze, I'm afraid."

She smiled, then laughed. "I'm in a daze and completely parched."

"I am, too. Too many tears."

"No more tears allowed."

"No, no more allowed." And now, he laughed. Dazed? He was dizzy, actually. He couldn't stop smiling and Mary saw that, at last, his eyes were smiling, too.

She stood and came around behind his chair and hugged him tightly. Was it only a few short hours ago that she had stood just like this, comforting him in his despair? The rays of the bright winter sun streamed through the window panes making patterns on the cushion of the window seat.

They looked out at the glistening snow that covered the terrace garden. "There's not a cloud in the sky," she said close to his ear, her breath on his cheek making him shiver. "This is our new day."

Just then, Bates poked his head in.

"His lordship has just entered the dining room. If you're ready, this would be a good time. Sir," he added, "I'll be waiting for you in your room."

"Right, thank you, Bates." He looked up at Mary. "What about Sybil and Edith?"

"Oh, I'm not concerned about them." Mary took his hand. "I'm not worried about anything," she added firmly.

Matthew brought her hand to his lips and smiled up at her at her, trying to feel as calm about it as she seemed. "Here we go."

He folded his tailcoat and started to lay it on his lap when he noticed his damned right leg again, still listing left. "Hold on," he murmured handing the coat to Mary. He repeated the maneuver that had failed the night before, steadying his shin and lifting his thigh. Mary held her breath. The leg stayed in place. His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise and then he looked up, smiling broadly.

"Now, that's a miracle."

Mary handed him his coat, her eyes filling. "One of many," she said softly, kissing his forehead.

Matthew laid his coat across his lap and reached up and held her cheek.

"No more tears allowed, dearest."

She nodded quickly, placing her hand over his.

They carefully opened the door and came out into the empty great hall. Robert and Carson could be heard conversing quietly in the dining room.

Mary turned and gazed down at Matthew. One last look before they parted. All right, then, one last kiss, she couldn't help it and neither could he. She leaned down and took his waistcoat in her hands as he reached out and held her waist. No, no more tears allowed. Laughing about it afterward, they both admitted that they had forgotten that they had left the library.

They were suddenly aware of a sound on the staircase and their eyes popped open as they pulled apart.

"Crikey," Matthew muttered under his breath.

"Good morning, Mama," Mary smiled brightly. "You're down rather early."

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_Thank you all for reading and reviewing!_


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